


Shadow-Grey Eyes

by Darkhorse



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas Truce of 1914, M/M, WWI AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2835599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkhorse/pseuds/Darkhorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt 'Basically, during WWI, the troops independently decided to stop fighting on Christmas day, and the opposing countrymen met and some exchanged groups.</p><p>I would love to read something where Les Amis are split up into different countries and they get together and some fall in love on Christmas. (E/R? Courf/Jehan? Whoever/Whoever!!!) I'd also love to see some follow up after the war is over, them trying to contact and find each other. But I'd be totally content with just a real quick heartbreaker oneshot set on Xmas. Basically whatevererrerere. I will literally love you even if you mention this in passing. '</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Romance got a bit lost, as I wanted to get this up, but it's there at the end.

The attack was failing. Over the crack of rifles and the wine of bullets he could hear the hurried march of German feet up the trench, towards them  
“Retreat, Retreat”  
Obedient to order the compagnie fell back in what bordered on routed flight.  
He ran with then, rear guard and looking over his shoulder. Ahead of him Marius fell, crying out in pain as one of the German Bullets found a mark. He stopped and crouched, attempting to heave the wounded aide onto his shoulders  
“Capitaine, behind you” Marius's voice was a whisper.  
Valjean turned and saw a German officer standing by the dugout mouth. The uniform was almost too pristine for this place, but the gun was levelled and ready.  
He held the gaze above the barrel, still supporting the now unconscious Marius“S'il te plait...”  
A long moment of silence, then the barrel lifted up and discharged it's bullet into cold winter air.  
He understood, bracing Marius across his shoulders and fleeing at a lumbering run. No shots came as he crossed no-man's land either and he leapt down into the trench awkwardly but unscathed, allowing the Medical orderlies to spirit Marius away towards the rear.

Their trench was just as cold as the Germans' had been, though thankfully that meant the mud had frozen solid and they had dry feet for a little while. Still Valjean felt immeasurably sad looking over his crack section. They hadn't come off too badly; Bousset had fallen, and Marius was injured, almost certainly to being boarded. But even those losses made their mark. He still had to find out how many of the others in the compagnie, the ordinary folk, as Lieutenant Enjolras called them, had gone down. Walking along the dugout he waved off said Lieutenant's attempted salute, sharing nods and touching shoulders.

Late that evening he slipped back into his dugout, perching on the rough raised wood that acted as his bed. Fifty others dead, all told. Fifty good men out of this hell to god. It was little comfort for him, however strong his faith, and would likely be less to their families. Some were barely of age, joining it for fun and he knew another couple of them had left pregnant wives at home to enlist. He dropped his head into his hands, allowing himself to weep silently. Better to weep now than make the letters already illegible before they even arrived at their destinations.

His watch said it was nearly dawn hour when he finished writing and remembered he hadn't set his wallet on his table as he normally would. Automatically he reached in to his inner great-coat pocket.  
It was empty. He shrugged the coat off and peered inside, then groped with his whole hand. Nothing.  
Valjean dropped the coat on the table and threw himself into his cot with perhaps more force than necessary, closing his eyes tight as he tried to conjure up the two faces that lived in that wallet. They didn't come. Instead his mind drew him to a tall man, standing in a trench, with shadow-grey eyes and a rifle raised too high to be effective. The man who had let him go...

For the next two weeks or so, time almost lost its meaning in the trenches, things were quiet. Rifle shots and artillery barrages were exchanged with regularity, but there were no attacks by the Germans on them, nor were they called on to attack. Then, suddenly, Noel packages were arriving and everyone began to realise it was the 24rd of December, that they really ought to do something to celebrate.  
It was Fueilly, who came to him with the idea, fighting nervously, and Valjean also noticed how he was studiously not-noticing where he hid the three bottles which had come from Cosette and the housekeeper. That might delay Grantaire finding them for a few days at least. As Fueilly finished his suggestion, apparently already agreed by some of Les Amis, Valjean nodded  
“A little music will do us no harm, I think. Let us celebrate tonight as best we can, perhaps the Germans will do the same, and we will have a little peace.”

The day was little different to normal, except for odd jingle-sounds from the German trench rather than gunshots. They ate their meal, trying not to compare it to what would have been eaten at home, yet also trying to forget the icy frozen mud that surrounded them, that was just too painful. No one willing to stir memories, so when memories were all that settled on their minds, they stayed quiet until every plate was clean.  
Then Valjean raised his cup, waiting until it rippled down the company to those furthers away before speaking “Joyeux Noel”  
“Joyeux noel”

 

“Joyeux noel”  
It echoed across no-man's land and all his soldiers lifted their heads, tensing in preparation for an attack. With a sharp arm gesture he signalled them back down, glaring at a reticent pair.  
They waited in silence, all glancing to him, and then to the Christmas trees in intervals across the trench. He gave a brisk nod  
“Put them on the parapet” It could do no harm, might even lure the French forward. Then he turned away, consciously separating himself from the celebrations of his troops. Christmas was a time to give thanks for Christs birth and to pray, not to indulge in wanton drunkeness and foolery. Not that his men should be capable of getting drunk, even with the extra rum ration that had been ordered, but he wouldn't put it past the idiots to do something silly... and right on cue, singing started. He immediately turned to reprimand whichever man was being such an idiot, only to meet a sea of blank faces staring, partly at him and partly over no-man's land, where, he now realised, the singing came from. It took a great control, control honed over all the years of his life to stay impassive, for unlike his men, who merely guessed the sentiment in strange words, based around the season, he understood what they were singing...every word of it.

Enjolras had a fine voice, Valjean had to admit that. It was the kind of voice that men would follow into battle without qualms, trusting in the picture that it drew. He glanced along the trench, eyes resting on a figure slumped in a mud hollow, face drawn and bitter despite the joy and glory the lieutenant put into the song. It was saddening, awkwardly out of place to see that expression, but he wasn't surprised. Grantaine had early on established his position in the Les Amis platoon, that of drunkard when he could get the alcohol, and cynic at all times. That wasn't to say he was alone in seeing this war as annoying, but in the particular group, he was the only one who loudly disagreed with Enjolras's proclamation that this war would lead to a better world.  
He was so deeply engrossed in his thoughts that he jumped when applause broke out, and was even more surprised when an echo of it came from the other lines. The harmony, seconds of it, was shattered by a commanding voice ringing out  
“Stille!”  
The clapping stopped and he saw Enjolras sag, deflated by the reaction for brief moments  
“It would be wonderful if we could only speak to them.”  
Valjean touched his shoulder in sympathy, and signed that he could give another splash of wine to each man. As their attention was diverted he ducked back into the dugout. Enjolras had given him an idea. He dug out his only remaining clean white shirt, kept tidy in case he was called back to headquarters. What he planned to attempt was total madness, he knew, and it would need a miracle to manage it. But then, he thought, what time of year would have a better chance of creating a miracle than Christmas Eve, when he who performed all sourts of miracles was born? He nodded to himself as he tied the sleeves together, it was worth a try at least. Valjean just hoped his oposites had a similar feeling, else this would go badly wrong. He kept to the shadows of the trench, dodging the outskirts of the group and scrabled oup onti the fire step, finding his hand moving in an involentary action of crossing himself.

“Comandant! Offizer?” the voice came out of no-man's land. Javert was already in his dugout when a sentry came trotting in “Sir?”  
“What?” He wasn't in the mood to be polite, the entire day had been rubbing him wrong.  
“There's something you should see”  
Giving the man a whithering look, and a pointedly annoyed sigh, he followed him back out into the frozen trench.  
The sentry who'd sent the message had the goodness not to be down the other end of the system, and also remember to jump down from his fireing step when Javert approched, snapping a brisk salute and manging to remain solid in his footing at the same time. J  
“Well?”  
The man quailed raising an arm to point “Someone's out there, one of the French, calling for an Officer.”  
For a moment he was tepted to send one of the coporals out to deal with it then recalled that none of them spoke french. He'd have to deal with it himself.  
“Be alert, but don't shoot unless they do.” He wasn't going to be seen as the aggressor, attacking under what was clearly a truce flag, for all he knew they might be surrendering. 

The sight that met him on No-man's land could almost be called comical. A french officer, clearly relatively old, walking forward waving a white shirt above his head. A truce flag indeed. Javert crossed the last meters of ground to the other man, holding up his own handkerchief as a flag, as an officer, he was allowed to keep his white handkerchief. They stopped about three strides from each other. Javert found himself instantly assessing the man he faced. What was he doing here? He was an old man, better off at home by a fire than out here in this freezing mud. However what disconcerted him morre was the sences he gained that the officer was not assesing his qualities in return, had simply taken him for who he was and now waited for him to finishe so he migh speak his piece without beign a nuscence. He fixed the other man with a firm look, though it felt wrong to use his significant height benefit to intimidate one older.  
“français?” The work had an attempt at German inflection but even without it's meaning was clear. He gave a curt nod, switching langauges “Yes, I speak french.”  
“And very well too,” the old man chuckled slightly seeming not the least abbshed by Javerts glared resoponse, he did not apprciate being the subject of amusement even as his mother's langauge slid off his tongue like it had always been there.  
“What do you want?”  
The older officer looked back towards his trenches for a second, then leveled Javert with his gaze, one that had an element of equality between them, a plea “Ceasefire, a chance to meet, talk.”  
“No!” Javert moderated his voice, aware that soldiers would be listening intently, they always did “It is forbidden to fraternise, it is incorrect and unfaithful to the country we come from.”  
“Yet you speak with the accent of alsace on your tongue, and your parents would have know it to be france.”  
Javert blinked, was he being mocked? “What has that to do with anything, what has that to do with fraternisations and breaking of the army code?”  
The French man guestured to the trnches behind Javert “Your men, are they Alsace too? Or fro lorraine?”  
“No, only I.”  
“Then you must be lonely...”  
“It is an officers rightful postion to be seperated from his men!”  
The other's officer's eyes were earnest, not angry or teasing. In fact they almost pleaded. “It is only one night...  
“One night is one night to many. Farewell.”  
He turned away, only to see all his men peering over the top of the trench as best they could, those near ladders almost out of the cover entirely  
“Herunterkommen! Haben Sie die Ziele sein?” They ignored him, and one pointed back to the other side of the battlefeild. Javert looked over his shoulder, feeling like an idiot. The french troops were rising out of their trench and coming forward. So it was an attack. He reached for his pistol, only to find another hand closing over his own. He stared at the French officer.  
“Non of us are armed, They want a truce, just for Christmas, just for tonight.”  
He stood still, considering “If we are found out, we will all be traitors to our countries.”  
“And if we kill tonight, won't we be traitors to god.” The older man was so earnest, so guiless, that against his better judgement Javert found himself wavering. He pulled his hand free and gave a sharp nod  
“Just for tonight.”  
He'd pay for it, they all would, it was only his superior's favouritism and his own unimpeachable record of discipline which had him on this front. All his compatriots were out in Russia, were it was colder and harsher still. He gave the signal for his men to come out.

To his surprise the men did not rush forward, trickling like water through the gap of a dam, or as if they had frozen feet weighting them down. The lines moved towards each other, blue and grey, then stopped at arms length. Silence. 

Finally, a man with a stray lock of gold hair peaking out from under his cap, a put out his hand, and Javert saw one of his older men shake it. That seemed to break the stalemate, and the two armies mingled awkwardly, relying mostly on gestures to communicate. Gradually, he saw wallets coming out, and the universal gestures of displaying the pictures within them.  
“Do you have any family?”  
He shook his head in a sharp twitch, and lapsed into silence, only to realise how rude that would sound. He glanced at the older man “You?”  
“A Daughter.”  
Javert watched as the man reached into his jacket, coming out with a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it almost as if it were a holy relic, then turned it, not handed it him. He looked at the drawing, appraising it. Then he glanced at the man in front of him  
“Forgive me if this is insulting, but she doesn't look much like you.”  
The French officer's lips twitched slightly “She shouldn't, given we share no blood ties, but she was so little when her mother left her to my guardianship that she calls me Father, and I call her daughter.”  
Javert nodded, the back of his mind buzzing with the thought that, while the girl did not look like the officer in front of him in any way, she did look very familiar, but from where?  
He probed gently “Not a photograph?”  
The French officer sighed “I lost the photos, and my wallet, during the attack.”

Valjean stared as his German opposite promptly turned and headed into the throng which was their respective subordinates. After a moment he saw another of the Germans turn and head back to the trenches, clearly having been collared by the officer. It took a few minutes for the man to return, and in the interim he was left puzzled, trying to work out how he had offended the other man. Then the officer surfaced from the crowd, walking back towards him with long strides. When they were close enough, the German held out his hand  
“I believe this is yours.”  
Valjean found himself holding the double square of brown leather, which he'd thought he would never set eyes on again. Automatically he flipped it open and thumbed through his papers, to find them all there. Most importantly, the two thicker pieces, the photographs.  
He lifted his eyes, to meet those impassive grey ones “Thank you.”  
“It wasn't me...one of the men turned it in for examination.” The voice was as factual and unemotional as the eyes had been.  
Valjean wasn't sure what to say, and the silence settled awkwardly around them even as the broken communication carried on a few meters away.  
Phssssh  
They both jumped on instinct, eyes jerking to the sky as the flares lit up the battlefield, soaring into the sky like fireworks. The German officer frowned as he traced the trails, seeing they led to his own trenches.  
“Fools.”  
He spoke softly “Let them have their fun, its been a long time since those flares have meant anything but trouble.  
“Is a few months a long time?”  
He held the other man's gaze “When a second of time, a meter of distance can be the difference between life and death...” He left the question unanswered, but saw the recognition in the other man's face. That was something that only these here could understand, a world away from his house in Paris and taking Cosette to walk in the Luxembourg Gardens. They wore different uniforms, but they weren't really that different, the man and him.

The no-man's land was empty. Javert stared around at it, seeing the backs of his troops slipping into their trenches. Christmas eve the truce had been declared for, at the twelve strikes of the village clock, the war would start again. They would shoot to kill the French, and the French would shoot to kill them. The Capitaine's bullet might even be the one which settled into his heart. It would be better, perhaps, if it was. He liked the man, he more than liked the man. But that could not happen.  
Footsteps. He turned.  
The Capitaine stood there holding a fat bottle in one hand “Here”  
He took it automatically, noting the name of Cognac on its label “Thank you”.  
The man pulled out another piece of paper from his pocket “I've written my address here, I know the boys were doing it... If you ever come to Paris.”  
Javert nodded. In the silence the clock struck it's first note.  
He didn't intend to do it, didn't plan to, but he found himself reaching out, cupping the other man's face with an mittened hand and pressing a rough kiss to his lips. 

Just as quickly as he'd started it he pulled away, turning and striding to his lines with the beat of the church clock. But on the edge of the trench he turned and looked back, to see the officer raise his hand in a gesture part salute, part farewell. He didn't return it, the kiss had been risky enough, but waited until he'd seen the other man step down before jumping into the trench and heading for his dugout. The truce was over, the war was begun again.

By candlelight he read the piece of paper which had been pushed at him, commiting it to memory. Jean Valjean, No. 5 Rue Plumet. Then, slowly and deliberately, he dandled it over the candle flame, watching as it caught and curled into ash. No evidence left of the effect of the fraternisation.

Except the warmth in his heart as he repeated the words. Jean Valjean.


	2. Christmas 1918

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost a year to the day that I posted the first chapter of this, here is the epilogue.

It was the first Christmas of peace for four years. Four long years of hardship. of war. and death. The table that was set was meager, for the shortages remained. It would take until next autumn for things to possibly return to normal, maybe a year after that. But there was peace, and that mattered. He smiled as Cosette and Marius entered the house wearing what passed for finery.

“Joyeux Noël, Papa,"

"Joyeux Noël, my darling.” 

She was radiant with joy, the strain he had seen in his leaves over the years, for both him and the injured Marius erased in moments once they were safe. He rejoiced at it, she did not deserve the hardship.  
“Papa?” 

There were shadows in his heart that not even the joy of his Lark could erase. So many men had died. Millions on all sides. France had won, but it did not reduce the number of men, boys who had gone out to the war and not come back. Of the cadre he had had a special fondness for, Les Amis, only Marius now remained. Saved by that wound given four years ago by a German bullet, and the mercy of a German officer.

Four years. 

It seemed a lifetime of loss, misery and mud since that Christmas truce, such a thing which had never happened again. There had been attempts, he'd heard, but a year later the war was stiffer, the senior officers stricter. So the attempts had failed.

“Papa, come to the table.”

He turned and took his place to carve the small peace of meat they had managed to find into their portions, dishing then out onto the fine plates which had somehow remained throughout the war. A piece of familiarity, in a world that would never be the same again.

He bowed his head to start the blessing, then went still. Singing. Someone outside the house was singing. Singing the same song that Enjolras had sung in the trenches, before the truce.

“If you will wait, I think it is only fair to offer whoever is out there a share of the little Noel cheer we have.” 

As he crossed the room he saw them exchange a look, but ignored it, pulled on his coat and left the apartment. No doubt they though he was mad to try and spread so little even further, but if everyone had kept themselves to themselves, where would he be now? Besides, Christmas talked about a family, and it was no time for anyone to be alone. 

 

He pushed open the front door and walked out into the apparently dead and very overgrown garden. As chaotic as it was, it calmed the ghosts that had threatened to rise. The Front had never had this many plants on it, what had been there was quickly bombed into cold damp mud. He wove through the tangle until he could see the gate. The small lantern that hung at its apex revealed a tall figure, standing singing to the house. There was something familiar in that outline, which tied in with the carol...

He stepped out of his cover and walked up to the gate calling out as he did so "Joyeux Noël, stranger, may I offer you some refreshment in light of the season?”  
“Joyeux Noël, Jean Valjean.”  
That wasn't a local accent, but it was one he knew none the less. He looked up to the strangers face... and met shadow-grey eyes.

It was a long moment before he remembered to breathe again “You survived too.”

“Just. I can't say the same for my men.”

Jean shook his head, breaking the eye contact “Nor I mine, the only one left is Marius. We have you to thank for that Monsieur.” It was only then that he realised he didn't even know the other man's name

“Javert. Not Hauptmann, not Monsieur. Not anything.” Javert looked slightly bemused “I'm not even sure which nationality I am any more.”

“You're alive, in Paris, in civilian clothes, that's what matters.” Very ragged civilian clothes now he gave them a proper look.

He carefully unlocked the old gate, and pulled it back, ignoring Javert's wince at the high screech and depressing his own reaction. All that was over. “Come in."

Slowly Javert stepped through the gate, scanning the foliage “Do you live like a bear?”

He had to chuckle at that, and it felt good to laugh “There's a house behind it all, I promise. Gardening wasn't really on anyone's minds these last few years.”

“I'm not surprised, briar fires smell dreadful.” There was a sincerity which spoke of hardship behind the words, but it was still a different kind of conversation, almost light-hearted. It was nice, a release from everything gone before, a reminder that it was over.

He held out a hand to Javert “Come, a proper Christmas waits.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any comments gratefully received.


End file.
